Beneath the Rot

The faint crackle of her lantern was the only sound in the room.

Lyra stood hunched over a scarred wooden table, her hands pressed against its splintered edges, eyes locked on a map so old the corners had curled in on themselves. It was a relic from a time when the surface above still made sense—a time when streets had names instead of numbers in death tallies, when neighborhoods weren’t just warzones divided by gang banners and enforcer barricades.

Now, the map was crisscrossed with fresh markings—charcoal strokes, blood-red arrows, notations scrawled in her sharp, deliberate hand:

• “Node Alpha – Sabotaged”

• “Fuel Depot Fire – diversion successful”

• “Patrol weakness: Sector 12B – exploitable?”

She chewed her lip, eyes darting between the routes. Each one was a gamble. The city’s arteries above were choked, but there were still veins down here—tunnels that ran like forgotten lifelines beneath the rot.

If she could chart a path through them, connect sympathetic cells, time the strikes…

She could make the surface breathe again.